The Lone Wolf
by kds218
Summary: Set several years after the ending of the great war, Daenerys and Jon rule the seven kingdoms. Sansa and Tyrion rule the north. Arya is captain of the House Stark guards, but has found that even the end of the war couldn't bring light to the darkness inside of her. A visit from a old friend threatens Arya's position at Winterfell, as well as the walls she's put up around herself.
1. Prologue: The Ghost of the Barrow

"Get your fuckin' horse shut up before I shut it up for good and you have to walk your fat-ass the rest of the way to Moat Cailin."

"He's spooked," Todd argued, jerking the old palfrey's reins on one side. "Been that way ever since we started into the Barrowlands. He don't like it here, and neither do I."

Although he wouldn't tell Rog about it, he knew it was the ghosts that disquieted the horse. He felt disquieted, too. His grandmam used to tell him stories about the Barrows when he was just a boy outside Torrhen's square. Spirits of the First Men would walk the rolling hills when the moon was full, stealing children to pull down to their graves with them as revenge against the Children of the Forest. She even saw a ghost of a giant once on the Great Barrow, and said it was shaggier than an aurochs and smelled worse than aurochs shit, even as a ghost. The moon was bright tonight, but not a full moon. Todd figured some spirits walked around all the time, not just on a full moon.

"Rog?" The fat boy pulled his horse to a stop then. He peered out over the plains of stick-grass. It blew like water in the wind and the moonlight played tricks on his eyes. Even so, something dark caught his eye in the field a way off. "Rog, I think there's something out there. I saw something."

"Are you scared of the ghosties?" Rog said mockingly, grunting out a chuckle and making his gruff voice high. "Maybe it's the ghost of that little northern girl you fucked to death. Maybe she liked it so much she followed you and is gonna cut your cock off in your sleep and turn it into a ghost cock she can carry with her." He guffawed then, too loudly.

Rog always called Todd stupid and simple, but he knew Rog was the stupid one. Todd knew that you couldn't make a cock into a ghost, and plus that little girl hadn't even liked what he'd given her. He knew that for a fact because that was why he liked it so much.

Todd was barely listening, though. He'd swung down from the horse, unable to coax it any closer to the grass. He kept the rein in one hand and crept closer to the eye-tall brambles. He felt goose-pimples rising on his arms and the reins tightened as the horse lifted its head and snorted.

_First Men, cursed men, squirming in the dirt men…._

He couldn't say why that children's rhyme had come into his head at that moment, but it left just as quickly as it came. The palfrey suddenly screamed and took off, nearing taking Todd's arm with it. He landed with a splat in the wet dirt, his hands shooting out to catch himself but slipping into the mud up to the elbow.

"You fucking idiot! Go catch my fuckin' horse!" Rog shouted, swinging off his own mount and storming toward the young man splayed in the mud. Todd looked up at him, wide-eyed, still catching up to what was happening. _He's going to kick me. He's going to kick my crooked teeth right out of my fat face. _But suddenly Rog stopped and stared at him, which frightened him even more than a kick.

"Rog?"

Todd moved to stand up, the mud releasing his pale arms with a sucking sound. Before he could rise, though, there was a soft whistle through the air, then a faint _thump. _Rog's mouth fell open, and even in the moonlight the blood that creeped out of his mouth was darker than a shadow. Todd's bladder released as the older boy fell to his knees, then forward onto his face in the mud where Todd's own hands had just been.

When he finally lifted his eyes from the body, the spirit was right there, sleight and dark and featureless except for eyes that glowed like clouds in front of the moon.

_Grandmam was a liar_ was the last thing he thought, before the spirit turned into a wolf and leapt.


	2. Chapter 1: Arya

"My Lady, Lord Tyrion and Lady Sansa invite you to break your fast with them this morning."

Arya lifted her gaze from a map on the table to look at the small boy in front of her. Red flush crept up his freckled face when her eyes met his, but the boy had the tact to keep his chin up.

"I've already broken my fast. And I've told you not to call me 'my lady'."

For a small woman, she had a fierce appetite. She'd broken her fast first thing upon waking before going to the Godswood to train. Afterward she'd enjoyed a blackberry tart. Dancing was hard work, and after her days begging for scraps in Flea Bottom she'd found a new appreciation for food. Sansa could keep her finery, Arya preferred butter and steel.

"Lady Sansa said you would say that. She told me to tell you that there will be honeyed walnuts and ham." Arya narrowed her eyes. _Who does she think I am? I won't be called to hand with treats like a hound. _"And Lord Tyrion requested the baker make bread and apple-cream custard."

_Clever little bastard._ "Very well. Tell them I'll be up shortly."

"I will, my lady."

"Pod, how many times do I—"

"Sorry, my, ah…"

"Arya. My name is Arya."

"Yes, of course. Sorry, my Arya."

She sighed. "Off with you."

The boy turned and scampered out of the gatehouse. _I should try to be kind to him. _He was a good lad, she knew. His father had died fighting during the War of Ice and Fire, but not before begetting one of the whores in town with child. His mother had died giving birth to him, but not before sending word to Lord Tyrion of the boy's patronage. The Imp had insisted the boy be taken into the castle. It made Arya sad to look at him sometimes, just as it did the many children in Winterfell who were left without parents after the dead came. For all the differences between them, Sansa made a good Lady of Winterfell. She had insisted an orphanage be built to house all of them, and personally saw to it that they were clothed, fed, and properly trained. Her mother had been a good Lady, too, but what she lacked in compassion, Sansa made up for ten-fold.

She stopped by the smithy on her way toward the castle to see about the sword she was having made for her lieutenant, Cam. He'd made quick work of training new boys and she wished to reward him. The only gifts Arya ever gave were weapons. One eye closed, she peered down the length of the blade, then deftly flipped it and balanced it on her index finger. It tipped stubbornly blade-side, and her brow furrowed. "Balance is off, and it's a bit heavy. Take in the fuller." The smith looked disappointed, his dark mustache turning even more downward. She gave him a grin to ease the sting, "It's going to be perfect though, Ben. I wouldn't have asked you if I didn't think it would be."

"Aye." He agreed, taking back the blade.

Walking into the Great Hall, she was greeted by the smell of ham and bread, and the sound of her brother-in-law chastising a serving girl.

"Don't you know the only good eggs are ones paired with Dunk and those with runny yolks? Sweet wife, tell the girl how I despise hard-boiled eggs."

Sansa, beautiful in a simple, high-necked woolen dress in a warm blue, rolled her eyes in feigned exasperation, but offered a kind smile to the girl. "Forgive him, Jenny. He is never more a lion than when he's left waiting for breakfast."

"I disagree, sweetling, there are certain times I am ever the more lion—"

Arya cleared her throat.

"Ah, there's the delay." Tyrion rose from his seat. "I was afraid you may be watching your figure."

"Hello, Tyrion." She took the seat across from them, plucking a hard-boiled egg from the plate. "I rather like hard-boiled eggs. Make for easy eating." She cracked it on the side of the table and began to worry at the shell.

"There's no point in easy eating or easy love-making, I always say."

"You keep on with that, and your custard bait will be for naught."

"Thank you for coming," Sansa interjected. "You were longer hunting than I'd thought. We were beginning to worry."

Arya picked a piece of shell off her tongue and flicked it away. "There's been a sounder of boar tearing up the farmer's fields. I killed one just south of here and the rest scattered. Took two days to track them."

"Boar-hunting can be dangerous work. I hear their tusks are very sharp." Tyrion put a piece of bacon in his mouth and grinned sheepishly.

"Nah, only if they stick you. Caught this one in the mud. Easier than killing squirrels." She sucked at a tooth and seemed to avoid his eyes.

"There was a raven from Dragonstone while you were gone." Sansa informed her. "Jon sent an envoy this way."

"An envoy?" Arya tossed aside the rest of the egg. "What about? Why couldn't he come himself?" Her brother hadn't been back to Winterfell in years, not since Prince Eddard had been born.

Tyrion and Sansa exchanged a look that caused Arya to frown. "Sansa, what about? Has something happened?"

"Nothing has happened, Arya. There are certain…matters that need to be discussed."

"Matters." Arya didn't care for the sound of that, or the way her sister wouldn't meet her eye.

"Matters regarding the heir to Winterfell."

"What does that have to do with Dragonstone? Or me? It was at this moment she realized her sister's blue eyes, which looked so much like her Mother's, had filled with tears. Startled, she sat up straighter in her chain. "I don't understand."

"We…Tyrion and I… have struggled, as you know," Arya knew very well. Her sister had had difficulty conceiving in the years following the war. Twice they had succeeded, but both times the pregnancy was lost before she even began to show. Townspeople whispered that the dwarf may be sterile.

Tyrion laid a hand gently on Sansa's. She composed herself and looked up at her sister, strong and sad. "Maester Sam fears that it may not be possible. That the last time may be the last time."

Arya didn't know what to say. She never knew what to say in matters like this. She could talk about killing and war, but more sensitive matters alluded her.

"I…I'm sorry." She said awkwardly. "I'm so sorry. But I still don't understand."

The Imp was the one who finally came out with it. "The North needs an heir if it's to hold together, Arya. And since your sister and I seem unlikely to produce one, that leaves only one option."

Tyrion looked almost ashamed as he said it, which made Arya even angrier. Her cool grey eyes bored into his mismatched ones as she realized what he was saying. Her jaw clenched and she forgot the sympathy she'd felt just moments before. "No." Was all she said.

"Arya—"

"No." She repeated. "When I agreed to stay, it was as Commander of your Castle Guard. I will leave Winterfell before I let myself be wed and bred."

"Arya, it wouldn't be like that." Sansa argued. "You will have the final choice in the matter, but if the Starks—"

"Oh, will I have the final choice?" She scoffed. "Can I marry Pod then? Or how about the fool Blockwing? He's always singing about cocks, I wonder what his is like."

"It is not as simple as that!" Sansa groaned, putting her fingers over her eyes. "You know what this means. You know we have to secure the North, the kingdoms are still fighting civil wars, and the only way to do that is with a marriage with a noble lord and an heir. I know you don't like this, Arya, but this is serious."

"I'm serious!" Arya snapped. "You think I worked as hard as I have to be given up to some lord? I killed people to get back home, Sansa, and it wasn't so I could be a fucking lady."

"Mother would want you to—"

"I don't care what mother would want, she's not here. This isn't a discussion. My answer is no."

"Father would be ashamed of you!" Sansa shouted. Arya stood at that, just as the serving girl brought in the bread-custard. Arya knocked it from her hands, sending it flying across the hall, along the windows and onto her own doublet.

"Do not bring father into this." Arya growled.

Sansa and Tyrion had both risen to avoid an onslaught of cream. Tyrion eyed the sisters uncertainly, as though he was unsure whether he should leave or separate them.

"I will not waste my life on being someone's wife. On being someone's mother. I'm more than that." Arya hissed.

"And I'm not?"

"I'm not you, Sansa! It's what you've always wanted since you were a little girl, I never wanted—"

"It IS what I've always wanted." Sansa seethed, and the fury in her eyes caused Arya's mouth to snap shut. Sansa prowled toward her then, and for the first time in her life Arya felt fear of her own sister. Sansa towered over her, blue eyes full of anger and something else, "Don't you think I hate this as much as you? Don't you know how it tears me apart knowing I can't do this, but you can?" Her eyes were full of tears and hate and Arya was afraid Sansa might strike her. "You aren't better than me. You've always thought you were, but you're not. You're scared no one will want you, not even your own child. You're so scared you'd ruin your own family over it. You'd let Winterfell disappear in the snow, after all we've sacrificed: Mother, Father, Robb, Rickon, Bran, all of it would be for nothing!"

"I won't do it." Arya whispered, the strength gone from her voice. There was something in what her sister said that made her feel like an angry, sad child. She hated feeling like a child.

"You have to." Tyrion spoke. He had been silent until then. "I'm sorry, Arya. We both are. But everything depends on this."

Arya's own eyes stung as she looked at Tyrion, his face a mix of apprehension and sympathy. It made her sick. She looked back to Sansa, who had turned back to the table, shoulders shaking softly. Arya was silent for a long time before she finally spoke, "This envoy." She said through gritted teeth. "Does it come from the Vale? I will not marry Robert Arryn."

Sansa took a deep breath and smoothed her skirt before turning to look at her sister. "No," she replied. "It's from Storm's End."


	3. Chapter 2: Gendry

**Thanks for the support so far! This is my first time doing this, and it's mainly just to get this out of my imagination and onto some "paper". I have to write them pretty hastily so apologies for grammatical/spelling errors. I try to check them as I go, but things happen. **

* * *

"_She's dead, boy. I know you don't want to hear it, but it's true, and the sooner you can face that the sooner you can move on and spend your time thinking about something else."_

"_You don't know that. She is highborn. The Hound knows she's worth more alive than dead."_

"_And you don't know the Cleganes like I do. Worth has nothing to do with it. All the wolves are gone, one pup means nothing to a man like Sandor Clegane. She will slow him down. Surely you've heard tale of what the Hound is capable of…if you pray for anything, pray he showed her more mercy than his brother would have and killed her quick."_

The past five years spent at Storm's End had accustomed Gendry to the moods of the sea. At first, he'd hated it—the saltiness of the air, the damp, the constant roar of waves breaking on the rocks. It had taken lessons with Lord Davos before he was able to learn to swim, and even then, he'd been awkward. Bulky as he was, he'd felt a stone in the water, unable to float on his back like the children seemed to do so effortlessly. Eventually, though, he found his buoyancy, and even came to enjoy the feeling of the chilly water on his bare skin. The forge had made his shoulders strong, and once he learned how to move his arms and legs in the water, they carried him swiftly through the sea, even as as it was here. Edric had been raised at Storm's End and was a strong swimmer, but eventually Gendry was able to out swim him. Hardly a day had passed that he hadn't swam. There was nothing like jumping into the cool bay after a day working in the forge, letting the salt dissolve the grime and sweat. Gendry had no love for the Gods, but he could see why the Ironborn loved their drowned god.

Even so, a ship was different. He had sailed a fair amount, particularly after the war. Once Queen Daenerys came to the throne, the kingdom was broken. More houses and families were destroyed in the fighting than remained afterward, and the issue of who would fill the empty seats was considered carefully. Storm's End was given to his brother, Edric, who had been raised to be a lord. He'd learned how to wield a sword (though never how to make one, Gendry liked to remind him,) and shoot a bow. He'd even been taught how to dance. Edric, with his Baratheon features and charisma. Gendry didn't mind that his brother had inherited their father's house, he had no interested in ruling.

After the war, Queen Daenerys had legitimized him and sent him to Storm's End to live with his brother and their household. He was to work with a maester at his letters, learn to read, and after that learn about history and arithmetic. It was a great honor, and he enjoyed the stories and couldn't deny than knowing how to read had its perks, but he still felt a bastard from flea bottom sometimes. Except he'd grown, too. When the time came to pick up a weapon and train, he'd found he was quite good at it. His father was a great warrior, Davos told him. Even so, Gendry knew there would come a time when he was to find a wife and perhaps be given a castle and some land, maybe even have a forge of his own. Somewhere quiet by the sea, with a good, kind woman and children; a simple life.

The ship reeled on the open sea and so did Gendry's thoughts. He normally slept like hard but the voyage, or perhaps the destination, had stolen his peace these past two weeks. Tonight, as he had the nights before, he thought of Arya. _My wife._ That thought made him feel uneasy, so shook it from his mind. She had been a child the last time he'd seen her—they both had. He was a man now, five-and-twenty. For a long time, he thought the last time he'd seen her would be the last time he'd ever see her. Lem had convinced him she was dead, told him it was better that way, told him to pray it so. The worst part for Gendry, the part that kept the guilt alive, was that he _had_ prayed for it. The thought of her being tortured or raped made him so angry he couldn't control his anger and had taken to beating whatever he could get his hands on—living or nonliving. Once he started thinking of her as dead, it hurt on the inside more, but at least the anger started to go away. It wasn't until a year into the Great War that word came from Winterfell that the castle still stood, and with it two Starks: the daughters, Sansa and Arya. He'd refused to believe it at first, and when Lord Davos had shown him the letter he'd pushed him, exclaiming, "You know I can't read, you Onion Bastard." But he hadn't been angry, not really. There was joy in finding out she was alive, but somewhere deep down there was more sadness, though he didn't know why. Eventually, the war had ended, the white walkers had fallen and the wildlings retreated back to the North. Gendry had sailed to the Stormlands with Lord Davos and his Uncle Stannis' body. They'd left from Karhold, never making it to Winterfell. Never making it to Arya.

Now, here he was, five years later, tucked away in a fine cabin on a galley headed to White Harbor, where he and his envoy would ride the rest of the way to Winterfell. His brother and the Onion Knight had brought news to him of his betrothal like it was a gift.

"It's a great honor, Gendry." Edric had told him that night as they looked out over Shipbreaker Bay. "The Starks are an old house, Winterfell a great castle. Your son will be Warden of the North some day."

"I'm not a Stark though," Gendry stated dryly. "What reason have they got with me?"

"There is much love between the stags and the direwolves, going back a long time. And the Queen wishes to see you gifted, for the fighting you did in the war." Edric even spoke like a Lord. Gendry had never quite gotten rid of his accent from King's Landing, although he could say a proper "My Lady" these days. He still had a hard time remembering to hold his h's though, and anyone with even a moderately keen ear could place his upbringing upon hearing him speak, particularly if he was at all in the cups.

"Why not you, then?" Gendry peered at his brother. "Wouldn't it make more sense for you to marry Arya?"

Edric lifted an eyebrow at the casual mention of her name. "My place is here. The father to the heir of Winterfell needs to be in Winterfell." He responded dismissively.

Gendry rolled his eyes at the tone, "Well then. I'm glad I could be of service."

"I just told you, Gen, it's a great—"

"Honor, yes. You've said that. Frequently. Forgive me for not feeling overwhelmed with gratitude. What will I do in Winterfell, other than make heirs?"

"That's for you and your Lady Wife to decide. I'm sure you will be granted a keep nearby if you wish, or you could live at the castle. You may be part of the Lord and Lady's council or head their armory. They're good people, Gendry. You will be welcome there."

Gendry sighed, silent for a moment as though contemplating what he would say next. "Have you heard much about Lady Arya, brother?"

"Some," Edric conceded, leaning his elbows on the stone wall. "I hear she's beautiful and intelligent."

Gendry snorted, "That sounds like a horseman's pitch."

"Doesn't mean it isn't true. And best not to get into the habit of referring to your wife as a horse."

"Did you know I knew her? Before, I mean?"

Edric was silent for a moment, "Yes, I knew. Davos told me. That is part of the reason I thought this arrangement would please you. It sounded as though you may have had some affection for the girl."

"She was a child," Gendry sighed. "We went through hell together. Her father'd just been executed, I'd been sold by Tobho. We were headed north, on the run from the Gold Cloaks. She knew why, I didn't. We saw terrible things, did terrible things. Saw our friends die. Killed people."

Edric paused, "Strong bonds are sewn from tragedy." When he thought a moment longer on what had been said, he added. "I'm sorry you went through that. Both of you."

"She's not like anyone else I ever met, Edric. She was strong, even as a girl. Stronger than me. Wild." He ran a hand through his thick black hair. "She never seemed the sort to marry."

"Ah," Edric grinned slightly at that. "You worry she won't want you."

"I know she won't. She's no lady."

"But she is," Edric argued gently. "Do you doubt the love she has for her family?"

"No," Gendry answered at once. "She's a wolf, through and through. I've seen it in her eyes."

"Well, then, she will agree. Because without you and her, the Starks are no more."

Gendry knew his brother meant well, but that thought made him feel even more miserable than he had before. Arya was strong and fierce and wild, it was what he loved most about her. The thought that he may be the thing to finally be the undoing of that, that he may play some part in her taming seemed cruel and sad. His brother left not long after that, leaving Gendry to stare out at the sea with eyes that matched its color. Eventually, the wind grew cold and Gendry found his way back to his chambers, where he fell asleep. That night he had dreamt of a wolves and stags and snow.


End file.
